Уилки Коллинз
The Haunted Hotel / Отель с привидениями

© Матвеев С.А., адаптация текста, комментарии, словарь и упражнения

© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2022

Wilkie Collins
The Haunted Hotel. A Mystery of Modern Venice

The First Part

Chapter I

In the year 1860, the reputation of Doctor Wybrow as a London physician reached its highest point. It was reported that he was one of the richest doctors in modern times.

One afternoon, the Doctor had just taken his luncheon in his consulting-room, and was sitting with a formidable list of visits to patients – when the servant announced that a lady wished to speak to him.

‘Who is she?’ the Doctor asked. ‘A stranger?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I see no strangers out of consulting-hours[1]. Tell her what the hours are, and send her away.’

‘I have told her, sir.’

‘Well?’

‘And she won’t go.’

‘Won’t go?’ The Doctor smiled as he repeated the words. The situation rather amused him. ‘Has this obstinate lady given you her name?’ he inquired.

‘No, sir. She refused to give any name – she said she wouldn’t keep you five minutes[2], and the matter was too important to wait till tomorrow. There she is in the consulting-room; and I don’t know how to get her out.’

Doctor Wybrow considered for a moment. He had met with women in all their varieties – especially the variety which knows nothing of the value of time. A glance at his watch informed him that he must soon begin his rounds among the patients[3] who were waiting for him at their own houses. So he decided to escape.

‘Is the carriage at the door?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. Open the house-door for me without any noise, and leave the lady in the consulting-room. When she gets tired, you know what to tell her. If she asks when I will return, say that I dine at my club, and spend the evening at the theatre. And softly, Thomas! If your shoes creak, I am a lost man.’

He noiselessly led the way into the hall, followed by the servant on tip-toe[4].

Did the lady in the consulting-room suspect him? Or did Thomas’s shoes creak? Was her sense of hearing unusually keen? Exactly as Doctor Wybrow passed his consulting-room, the door opened – the lady appeared on the threshold – and laid her hand on his arm.

‘I entreat you, sir, not to go away. Let me speak to you first.’

The accent was foreign; the tone was low and firm. Her fingers closed gently, and yet resolutely, on the Doctor’s arm.

Neither her language nor her action had the slightest effect. The influence that instantly stopped him, on the way to his carriage, was the silent influence of her face. The contrast between the pallor of her complexion and the glittering metallic brightness in her large black eyes held him literally spellbound. She was dressed in dark colours, with perfect taste; she was of middle height, and (apparently) of middle age – a year or two over thirty. Her nose, mouth, and chin possessed the fineness and delicacy of form. She was unquestionably a handsome person. She produced in the Doctor an overpowering feeling of professional curiosity. The case might be something entirely new in his professional experience.

She perceived that she had produced a strong impression upon him, and dropped her hold on his arm.

‘You have comforted many miserable women ‘ she said. ‘Comfort one more, today.’

And she led the way back into the room.

The Doctor followed her, and closed the door. He placed her in the patients’ chair, opposite the windows. Even in London the sun, on that summer afternoon, was dazzlingly bright. The radiant light flowed in on her. Her eyes met it unflinchingly. The smooth pallor of her unwrinkled skin looked more fearfully white than ever.

She had, strangely enough, nothing to say to him. A curious apathy took possession of this woman. The Doctor merely inquired what he could do for her.

She said abruptly: ‘I have a painful question to ask.’

‘What is it?’

Her eyes travelled slowly from the window to the Doctor’s face.

‘I want to know, if you please, am I going mad?’

Doctor Wybrow was disappointed. Was the new patient only a hypochondriacal woman, whose malady was a disordered stomach and whose misfortune was a weak brain?

‘Why do you come to me?’ he asked sharply. ‘Why don’t you consult a psychiatrist?’

‘I don’t go to a psychiatrist,’ she said, ‘I come to you, because my case is outside of all lines and rules, and because you are famous in your profession for the discovery of mysteries in disease. Are you satisfied?’

He was more than satisfied. She was correctly informed as to his professional position.

‘I am at your disposal,’ he answered. ‘Let me try if I can find out what is the matter with you.’

He put his medical questions. She answered promptly and plainly. The strange lady was, mentally and physically, in excellent health. Not satisfied with questions, he carefully examined the great organs of life. Neither his hand nor his stethoscope could discover anything wrong.

‘I can find nothing the matter with you,’ he said. ‘I can’t even explain the extraordinary pallor of your complexion. You completely puzzle me.’

‘The pallor of my complexion is nothing,’ she answered a little impatiently. ‘In my youth I escaped from death by poisoning. That’s why my skin is so delicate. But that is not important. I wanted your opinion. I believed in you, and you have disappointed me.’

Her head dropped on her breast.

The Doctor’s professional pride was a little hurt.

‘I can help you,’ he remarked, ‘if you choose to help me.’

She looked up.

‘Speak plainly,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Plainly, madam, you come to me as an enigma. My art can do much, but not all. For example, something occurred – something quite unconnected with the state of your bodily health – to frighten you about yourself. Is that true?’

She clasped her hands in her lap.

‘That is true!’ she said eagerly. ‘I begin to believe in you again.’

She rose.

‘I will tell you,’ she said. ‘But, I’ll mention no names!’

‘There is no need to mention names. The facts are all I want.’

‘The facts are nothing,’ she said. ‘I have only my own impressions to confess. I will do my best to content you – I will begin with the facts that you want.’

She sat down again and began her strange and wild confession.

Chapter II

‘It is one fact, sir, that I am a widow,’ she said. ‘It is another fact, that I am going to be married again.’

There she paused, and smiled. Doctor Wybrow was not favourably impressed by her smile – there was something at once sad and cruel in it. It came slowly, and it went away suddenly. He began to doubt whether he was wise to listen to her.

The lady went on.

‘My approaching marriage,’ she said, ‘has one embarrassing circumstance connected with it. The gentleman whose wife I am to be, was engaged to another lady when he met with me, abroad: that lady was of his own blood and family, and related to him as his cousin. I have innocently robbed her of her lover, and destroyed her prospects in life. Innocently, I say – because he told me nothing of his engagement. When we next met in England, he told me the truth. I was naturally indignant. He showed me a letter from the lady herself, she was releasing him from his engagement. A noble letter! I cried over it. But the firmness of it – without anger, without a word of reproach – left him no hope. He appealed to my compassion; he appealed to his love for me. You know what women are. I said: yes! In a week more (I tremble as I think of it) we are to be married.’

She really trembled – she paused, before she could go on. The Doctor was waiting for more facts.

‘Excuse me, but I have suffering persons waiting to see me,’ he said. ‘The sooner you can come to the point, the better for my patients and for me.’

The strange smile showed itself again on the lady’s lips.

‘Every word I say is to the point,’ she answered. ‘You will see it yourself.’

She resumed her narrative.

‘Yesterday I was among the visitors at a party. A lady came in late. She took a chair near me; and we were presented to each other. I knew her by name, as she knew me. It was the woman whom I had robbed of her lover, the woman who had written the noble letter. Now listen! I admired her. This is very important, as you will see. On her side, I think that she understood I was not to blame. Now, explain to me, if you can, why, when I rose and met that woman’s eyes, I turned cold from head to foot, and shuddered, and shivered, and knew what a deadly panic of fear was, for the first time in my life.’

‘Was there anything remarkable in the lady’s personal appearance?’ the Doctor asked.

‘Nothing!’ was the vehement reply. ‘Here is the true description of her: the ordinary English lady; the clear cold blue eyes, the fine rosy complexion, the inanimately polite manner, the large good-humoured mouth, the too plump cheeks and chin: these, and nothing more.’

‘Was there anything strange in her expression, when you first looked at her?’

‘There was natural curiosity to see me; and perhaps some astonishment also. But if I could get to the door, I would run out of the room, she frightened me so! I was not even able to stand up – I sank back in my chair; I stared at the calm blue eyes that were only looking at me with a gentle surprise. To say they affected me like the eyes of a serpent is to say nothing. I felt her soul in them. That woman is destined to be the evil genius of my life. She said, “I am afraid the heat of the room is too much for you; will you try my smelling bottle[5]?” I heard those kind words; and I remember nothing else – I fainted. When I recovered my senses, the company had all gone; only the lady of the house was with me. For the moment I could say nothing to her. As soon I could speak, I implored her to tell me the whole truth about that woman. The had been her friend from her girlhood, they were like sisters. She knew her positively to be as good, as innocent, as the greatest saint that ever lived. But I felt an ordinary forewarning of danger in the presence of an enemy. I went next to the man whom I am to marry. I implored him to release me from my promise. He refused. I declared I would break my engagement. He showed me letters from his sisters, letters from his brothers, and his dear friends-all entreating him to think again before he made me his wife. All repeating reports of me[6] in Paris, Vienna, and London, which are vile lies. “If you refuse to marry me,” he said, “you admit that these reports are true.” What could I answer? He was plainly right: if I persisted in my refusal, the utter destruction of my reputation would be the result. The night has passed. I am here, with my conviction that innocent woman has a fatal influence over my life. I am here with the question. Sir, what am I – a demon who has seen the avenging angel? or only a poor mad woman with a deranged mind?’

Doctor Wybrow rose from his chair. He was strongly and painfully impressed by what he had heard. The conviction of the woman’s wickedness forced itself on him. He tried vainly to think of her as a person with a morbidly sensitive imagination; the effort was beyond him.

‘I have already given you my opinion,’ he said. ‘As for the impressions you have confided to me, I can only say that your case is more spiritual than medical. Of course you can be sure: what you have said to me in this room will not pass out of it. Your confession is safe.’

‘Is that all?’ she asked.

‘That is all,’ he answered.

She put some money on the table.

‘Thank you, sir. There is your fee.’

With those words she rose. The Doctor turned away his head, he did not want to take anything from her.

‘Take it back; I don’t want my fee,’ he said.

She did not hear him. She said slowly to herself,

‘Let the end come. I submit.’

She drew her veil over her face, bowed to the Doctor, and left the room.

He rang the bell, and followed her into the hall. As the servant closed the door, a sudden impulse of curiosity sprang up in the Doctor’s mind. He said to the servant,

‘Follow her, and find out her name.’

The servant took his hat and hurried into the street.

The Doctor went back to the consulting-room. Had the woman left an infection of wickedness in the house? He ran out into the hall again, and opened the door. The servant had disappeared; it was too late to call him back. But one refuge was now open to him – the refuge of work. He got into his carriage and went his rounds among his patients.

In the evening the servant reported the result of his errand.

‘The lady’s name is the Countess Narona. She lives at-’

The Doctor entered his consulting-room. The fee still lay on the table. He sealed it up in an envelope and addressed it to the ‘Poor-box’[7]. The servant asked,

‘Do you dine at home today, sir?’

After a moment’s hesitation he said, ‘No: I’ll dine at the club.’

Doctor Wybrow wanted to hear what the world said of the Countess Narona.

Chapter III

Doctor Wybrow lit his cigar, and looked round him at his brethren. The room was well filled. When he inquired if anybody knew the Countess Narona, everybody was astonished. What an absurd question! Every one knew the Countess Narona. An adventuress with a European reputation of the blackest possible colour – such was the general description of the woman with the deathlike complexion and the glittering eyes. It was doubtful whether she was really, what she called herself, a Dalmatian lady[8]. It was doubtful whether she had ever been married to the Count whose widow she assumed to be. It was doubtful whether the man who accompanied her in her travels (under the name of Baron Rivar, and in the character of her brother) was her brother at all. Report pointed to the Baron as a gambler at every ‘table’ on the Continent. And his so-called sister had escaped from a famous trial for poisoning in Vienna. Moreover, she had been known in Milan as a spy. Her apartment in Paris was nothing less than a private gambling-house.

Only one member of the assembly in the smoking-room took the part of this woman. But the man was a lawyer, and his interference was naturally attributed to the spirit of contradiction.

The Doctor inquired the name of the gentleman whom the Countess was going to marry.

His friends said that the Countess Narona had borrowed money in Homburg of Lord Montbarry, and had then deluded him into making her a proposal of marriage[9]. The younger members of the club sent a waiter for the ‘Peerage’[10]; and read aloud about the nobleman.

‘Herbert John Westwick. First Baron Montbarry, of Montbarry, King’s County, Ireland. Created a Peer for distinguished military services in India. Born, 1812. Forty-eight years old, at the present time. Not married. Will be married next week. Heir presumptive, his lordship’s next brother, Stephen Robert, married to Ella, youngest daughter of the Reverend Silas Marden, Rector of Runnigate, and has three daughters. Younger brothers of his lordship, Francis and Henry, unmarried. Sisters of his lordship, Lady Barville, married to Sir Theodore Barville, Bart.; and Anne, widow of the late Peter Norbury, Esq., of Norbury Cross. Three brothers Westwick, Stephen, Francis, and Henry; and two sisters, Lady Barville and Mrs. Norbury. Not one of the five will be present at the marriage, Doctor; and not one of the five will leave a stone unturned to stop it, if the Countess will only give them a chance. Add to these hostile members of the family another offended relative not mentioned in the ‘Peerage,’ a young lady-’

A sudden outburst of protest stopped the disclosure.

‘Don’t mention the poor girl’s name. There is but one excuse for Montbarry – he is either a madman or a fool.’

The Doctor spoke confidentially to his neighbour and discovered that the lady was deserted by Lord Montbarry. Her name was Agnes Lockwood.

Soon a member of the club entered the smoking-room. His appearance instantly produced a dead silence. Doctor Wybrow’s neighbour whispered to him, ‘Montbarry’s brother – Henry Westwick!’

The new-comer looked said, with a bitter smile,

‘You are all talking of my brother. Don’t mind me[11]. I despise him. Go on, gentlemen – go on!’

But the lawyer undertook the defence of the Countess.

‘I stand alone in my opinion,’ he said, ‘and I am not ashamed of it. Why can’t the Countess Narona be Lord Montbarry’s wife? Who can say she has a mercenary motive?’

Montbarry’s brother turned sharply on the speaker.

‘I say it!’ he answered.

‘I believe I am right,’ the lawyer rejoined, ‘his lordship’s income is not more than sufficient to support his station in life. And it is an income derived almost entirely from landed property in Ireland, every acre of which is entailed[12].’

Montbarry’s brother had no objection.

‘If his lordship dies first,’ the lawyer proceeded, ‘if he leaves her a widow, four hundred pounds a year – is all that he can leave to the Countess. I know that.’

‘Four hundred a year is not all,’ was the reply to this. ‘My brother has insured his life for ten thousand pounds.’

This announcement produced a strong sensation. Men looked at each other, and repeated the words, ‘Ten thousand pounds!’

After that, the Doctor went home. But his curiosity about the Countess was not satisfied. He was wondering whether Lord Montbarry’s family would stop the marriage after all. And more than this, he wanted to see the man himself. Every day he visited the club to hear some news.

Nothing happened. The Countess’s position was secure; Montbarry’s resolution to be her husband was unshaken. They were both Roman Catholics, and they were to be married at the chapel in Spanish Place.

On the day of the wedding, the Doctor went out to see the marriage. The wedding was strictly private. A carriage stood at the church door; a few people, mostly of the lower class, and mostly old women, were near. Here and there Doctor Wybrow detected the faces of some of his brethren of the club. They were attracted by curiosity, like himself. Four persons only stood before the altar – the bride and bridegroom and their two witnesses. One of these last was an elderly woman; the other was undoubtedly her brother, Baron Rivar.

Lord Montbarry was a middle-aged military man. Nothing remarkable. Baron Rivar had moustache, bold eyes, and curling hair. And he was not in the least like his sister.

The priest was only a harmless, humble-looking old man.

From time to time the Doctor glanced round at the door or up at the galleries, anticipating the appearance of some protesting stranger. Nothing occurred – nothing extraordinary, nothing dramatic.

The married couple walked together down the nave to the door. Doctor Wybrow drew back as they approached. To his confusion and surprise, the Countess discovered him. He heard her say to her husband, ‘One moment; I see a friend.’ Lord Montbarry bowed and waited. She stepped up to the Doctor, took his hand, and wrung it hard.

‘One step more, you see, on the way to the end!’ She whispered those strange words, and returned to her husband.

Then Lord and Lady Montbarry stepped into their carriage, and drove away.

Outside the church door stood the three or four members of the club. They began with the Baron.

‘Damned ill-looking rascal!’

They went on with Montbarry.

‘Is he going to take that horrid woman with him to Ireland?’

‘No! They know about Agnes Lockwood.’

‘Well, but where is he going?’

‘To Scotland.’

‘Does she like that?’

‘It’s only for a fortnight. Then they will come back to London, and go abroad.’

‘And they will never return to England, eh?’

‘Who can tell? Did you see how she looked at Montbarry? Did you see her, Doctor?’

Doctor Wybrow remembered his patients, and walked off.

‘One step more, you see, on the way to the end,’ he repeated to himself, on his way home. What end?

Chapter IV

On the day of the marriage Agnes Lockwood sat alone in the little drawing-room of her London lodgings. She was burning the letters which Montbarry had written to her.

She looked by many years younger than she really was. With her fair complexion and her shy manner, she looked like a girl, although she was now really advancing towards thirty years of age. She lived alone with an old nurse, on a modest little income which was just enough to support the two. There were no signs of grief in her face, and she slowly tore the letters of her false lover in two, and threw the pieces into the small fire. She did not cry. Pale and quiet, with cold trembling fingers, she destroyed the letters one by one. She did not read them again.

The old nurse came in, and asked if she wanted to see ‘Master Henry,’ the youngest member of the Westwick family, who had publicly declared his contempt for his brother in the smoking-room of the club. Agnes hesitated.

A long time ago Henry Westwick said that he loved her. But she acknowledged that her heart was given to his eldest brother. He was disappointed; and they met thenceforth as cousins and friends. But now, on the very day of his brother’s marriage, she did not want to see him. The old nurse (who remembered them both in their cradles) observed her hesitation.

‘He says, he’s going away, my dear; and he only wants to shake hands, and say good-bye.’

Agnes decided to receive her cousin.

He entered the room so rapidly that he surprised her. She hurriedly spoke first.

‘You are leaving London very suddenly, Henry. Is it business? or pleasure?’

He did not answer her. He pointed to the flaming letter, and to some black ashes of paper.

‘Are you burning letters?’

‘Yes.’

‘His letters?’

‘Yes.’

He took her hand gently.

‘I had no idea. Forgive me, Agnes – I shall see you when I return.’

She signed to him, with a faint smile, to take a chair.

‘We have known one another since we were children,’ she said. ‘Why should I have any secrets from you? I sent back all your brother’s gifts to me some time ago. I will keep nothing that can remind me of him.’

She looked into the fire. The tears were in his eyes. He muttered to himself,

‘Damn him!’

She looked at him again.

‘Well, Henry, and why are you going away?’

‘I am out of spirits[13], Agnes, and I want a change.’

She paused before she spoke again. His face told her plainly that he was thinking of her when he made that reply. She was grateful to him, but her mind was not with him: her mind was still with the man who had deserted her. She turned round again to the fire.

‘Is it true,’ she asked, after a long silence, ‘that they have been married today?’

He answered ungraciously: ‘Yes.’

‘Did you go to the church?’

‘Go to the church?’ he repeated. ‘How can you ask? I have never spoken to Montbarry, I have not even seen him, since he treated you like the scoundrel[14] and the fool that he is.’

She looked at him suddenly. He understood her, and begged her pardon. But he was still angry.

‘He will rue the day when he married that woman!’ he said.

Agnes took a chair by his side, and looked at him with a gentle surprise.

‘Is it quite reasonable to be so angry with her, because your brother preferred her to me?’ she asked.

Henry turned on her sharply.

‘Do you defend the Countess?’

‘Why not?’ Agnes answered. ‘I know nothing against her. On the day when we met, she appeared to be a timid, nervous person, looking dreadfully ill. She fainted under the heat of the room. We know that she did not want to hurt me; we know that she was not aware of my engagement.’

Henry lifted his hand impatiently, and stopped her.

‘Try to forget them both, Agnes!’ he interposed.

Agnes laid her hand on his arm.

‘You are very good to me, Henry; but you don’t quite understand me. I was wondering whether my feeling for your brother could really pass away. I have destroyed the last visible things that remind me of him. In this world I shall see him no more. But is the tie that once bound us, completely broken? What do you think, Henry? I can hardly believe it.’

The old nurse appeared again at the door, announcing another visitor.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, my dear. But here is Mrs. Ferrari. She wants to know when she may say a few words to you.’

Agnes turned to Henry, before she replied.

‘You remember Emily Bidwell, my favourite pupil years ago at the village school, and afterwards my maid? She left me, to marry an Italian courier, named Ferrari.’

Henry rose.

‘I will be glad to see Emily at any other time,’ he said. ‘But I will go now. My mind is disturbed, Agnes. I will cross the Channel[15] tonight. A few weeks’ change will help me, I hope.’

He took her hand.

‘Is there anything in the world that I can do for you?’ he asked very earnestly.

She thanked him, and tried to release her hand.

‘God bless you, Agnes!’ he said.

Her face flushed again. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it fervently, and left the room. The nurse hobbled after him.

‘Don’t be sad, Master Henry,’ whispered the old woman. ‘Try her again, when you come back!’

Agnes tried to compose herself. She paused before a little water-colour drawing[16] on the wall, which had belonged to her mother. It was her own portrait when she was a child.

The courier’s wife entered – a little meek melancholy woman, with white eyelashes, and watery eyes. Agnes shook hands with her kindly.

‘Well, Emily, what can I do for you?’

The courier’s wife made a rather strange answer:

‘I’m afraid to tell you, Miss.’

‘Sit down, and let me hear. How does your husband behave to you?’

Emily’s light grey eyes looked more watery than ever. She shook her head and sighed resignedly. ‘I have no positive complaint to make against him, Miss. But I’m afraid he doesn’t care about me; and he seems to take no interest in his home – I may almost say he’s tired of his home. It will be better for both of us, Miss, if he travels for a while. Not to mention the money.’

She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and sighed again.

‘I don’t quite understand,’ said Agnes. ‘I thought your husband had an engagement to take some ladies to Switzerland and Italy?’

‘Oh, Miss, one of the ladies fell ill – and the others won’t go without her. They paid him a month’s salary as compensation. But the loss is serious.’

‘I am sorry to hear it, Emily. Let us hope he will soon have another chance.’

‘Miss, you see, there are so many couriers at the moment just now. If someone privately recommends-’

She stopped.

Agnes understood her directly.

‘You want my recommendation,’ she rejoined.

Emily blushed.

‘It will be such a chance for my husband,’ she answered confusedly. ‘A letter, inquiring for a good courier (a six months’ engagement, Miss!) came to the office this morning. The secretary will recommend another man. If my husband could only send his testimonials… with just a word in your name, Miss… A private recommendation, you know.’

She stopped again, and sighed again, and looked down at the carpet.

Agnes began to be rather weary of the mysterious tone of her visitor.

‘If you want my interest with any friend of mine,’ she said, ‘why can’t you tell me the name?’

The courier’s wife began to cry.

‘I’m ashamed to tell you, Miss.’

For the first time, Agnes spoke sharply.

‘Nonsense, Emily! Tell me the name directly – or drop the subject – whichever you like best.’

Emily made a last desperate effort. She wrung her handkerchief hard in her lap and said,

‘Lord Montbarry!’

Agnes rose and looked at her.

‘You have disappointed me,’ she said very quietly. ‘You know that it is impossible for me to communicate with Lord Montbarry. I always supposed you had some delicacy of feeling. I am sorry to find that I am mistaken.’

Emily walked to the door.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss. I am not quite so bad as you think. But I beg your pardon.’

She opened the door. Agnes called her back. There was something in the woman’s apology that appealed to her.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Let me not misunderstand you. What is it that you expected me to do?’

Emily was wise enough to answer this time quickly.

‘My husband will send his testimonials, Miss, to Lord Montbarry in Scotland. I only wanted you to let him say in his letter that you have known his wife since she was a child, and that you feel some little interest in his welfare on that account. I don’t ask it now, Miss. I was wrong.’

‘It seems only a small favour to ask,’ Agnes said. ‘But I am not sure that I allow my name to be mentioned in your husband’s letter. Let me hear again exactly what he wishes to say.’

Emily repeated the words. Agnes wrote:

‘I venture to state that Miss Agnes Lockwood has known my wife from her childhood, and she feels some little interest in my welfare on that account.

Then Agnes handed the written paper to Emily.

‘Your husband must copy it exactly,’ she stipulated. ‘On that condition, I grant your request.’

Emily was thankful. Then she vanished.

Two days later, the post brought a few grateful lines from Emily. Her husband got the place. Ferrari was engaged, for six months certain, as Lord Montbarry’s courier.

The Second Part

Chapter V

After only one week in Scotland, my lord and my lady returned unexpectedly to London. For a week more, the newly-married couple remained in London, in the strictest retirement. On one day in that week the nurse met Lord Montbarry himself. The good woman’s report described him, with malicious pleasure, as wretchedly ill.

‘His cheeks are hollow, my dear, and his beard is grey. I hope the dentist hurt him!’

On the third day the newspapers announced the departure of Lord and Lady Montbarry for Paris, on their way to Italy.

Mrs. Ferrari informed Agnes that her husband’s temper was improved. One other servant accompanied the travelers – Lady Montbarry’s maid, a silent, unsociable woman. Her ladyship’s brother, Baron Rivar, was already on the Continent. He will meet his sister and her husband in Rome.

One by one the dull weeks succeeded each other in the life of Agnes. She was seeing her friends, reading and drawing. But her wound was too deep to forget. And an old friend and school companion who saw her during a brief visit to London, was inexpressibly distressed by the change that she detected in Agnes. This lady was Mrs. Westwick, the wife of that brother of Lord Montbarry, who was described in the ‘Peerage’ as presumptive heir to the title. Mr. Westwick was then in America. Mrs. Westwick invited Agnes to her home in Ireland.

‘Come and stay with me while my husband is away. My three little girls will make you their playfellow, and the only stranger you will meet is the governess. Pack up your things, and I will call for you[17] tomorrow on my way to the train.’

Agnes thankfully accepted the invitation. For three happy months she lived under the roof of her friend. The girls cried at her departure; the youngest of them wanted to go back with Agnes to London. Half in jest, she said to her old friend,

‘If your governess leaves you, keep the place open for me.’

Mrs. Westwick laughed. The children took it seriously, and promised to let Agnes know.

When Miss Lockwood returned to London, the old nurse told her,

‘Mrs. Ferrari, my dear, came here, in a dreadful state of mind. She was inquiring when you would be back. Her husband has left Lord Montbarry, without a word of warning – and nobody knows what has become of him.’

Agnes felt alarmed as well as surprised. She at once sent a message to Mrs. Ferrari, to say that she had returned.

In an hour more the courier’s wife appeared, in a state of agitation. After hearing from her husband from Paris, Rome, and Venice, Emily had twice written to him afterwards – and had received no reply. She went to the office in Golden Square. The post of the morning brought a letter to the secretary from a courier in Venice. It contained startling news of Ferrari.

The writer stated that he had recently arrived in Venice. Ferrari was with Lord and Lady Montbarry, at one of the old Venetian palaces. He was a friend of Ferrari, so he went to pay him a visit. He rang at the door that opened on the canal. No answer. He went round to a side entrance. Here, he found a pale woman with magnificent dark eyes, who was Lady Montbarry herself.

She asked, in Italian, what he wanted. He answered that he wanted to see the courier Ferrari, if it was quite convenient. She at once informed him that Ferrari had left the palace, without any reason. He did not leave an address at which his monthly salary could be paid. Amazed at this reply, the courier inquired if any person had offended Ferrari, or quarrelled with him. The lady answered,

‘To my knowledge, certainly not. I am Lady Montbarry. We are as much astonished as you are at his extraordinary disappearance. If you hear of him, pray let us know.’

The courier at once entered on the necessary investigations – without the slightest result. Nobody saw him. Nobody knew anything. They said that her ladyship’s English maid had left her, before the disappearance of Ferrari, to return to her relatives. His lordship was ill. He lived in the strictest retirement. The courier discovered a stupid old woman who did the housework at the palace. She arrived in the morning and went away at night. She had never seen the lost courier – she had never even seen Lord Montbarry, who was in his room. Her ladyship, ‘a most gracious and adorable mistress,’ was in constant attendance on her noble husband. There was no other servant then in the house but herself.

An Italian doctor once visited his lordship. He also had never seen Ferrari. The doctor described Lord Montbarry’s malady as bronchitis. The police were looking for the lost man – and that was the only hope, to Ferrari’s wife.

‘What do you think of it, Miss?’ the poor woman asked eagerly. ‘What will you advise me to do?’

Agnes did not know what to say. She was not thinking of the lost Ferrari; her mind was in Venice, by the sick man’s bedside.

‘I hardly know what to say,’ she answered.

‘Do you think it would help you, Miss, if you read my husband’s letters to me? There are only three of them.’

Agnes compassionately read the letters. The first letter was from Paris.

‘We leave Paris tomorrow. I don’t much like my lord. He is proud and cold, and, between ourselves, stingy in money matters. We were discussing some centimes in the hotel bill; and twice already. Some sharp remarks passed between the newly-married couple, her ladyship like to purchase pretty tempting things at the shops in Paris. “I can’t afford it!” For my part, I like her. She has the nice, easy manners.’

The second letter was dated from Rome.

‘My lord is incurably restless. I suspect he is uneasy in his mind. He is constantly reading old letters, when her ladyship is not present. We stopped in Genoa, but he hurried us on. The same thing in Florence. My lady’s brother met us in Rome. There was a quarrel already (the lady’s maid tells me) between my lord and the Baron. The latter wanted to borrow money of the former. His lordship refused in language which offended Baron Rivar. My lady pacified them.’

The third, and last letter, was from Venice.

‘More of my lord’s economy! We hired a damp, mouldy, rambling old palace. My lord says the quiet of Venice is good for his nerves. But a foreign architect is going to turn the palace into an hotel. The Baron is still with us, and there are more disagreements about money matters. I don’t like the Baron – and I don’t find my lady agreeable. She was much nicer before the Baron joined us. I receive my salary regularly at the end of each month – not a franc extra, though I do many things which are not part of a courier’s work. And the Baron was trying to borrow money of me! He is an inveterate gambler. And I saw other things besides, which don’t increase my respect for my lady and the Baron. The maid wants to leave. She is a respectable British female. It is a dull life here. When my lord goes out, he goes alone, and generally towards nightfall. Indoors, he shuts himself up in his own room with his books, and sees as little of his wife and the Baron as possible. Does he suspect anything? Who knows. However, the pay is good – and I’m not going to leave, like my lady’s maid.’

Agnes handed back the letters with feelings of shame and distress.

‘The one thing I can suggest,’ she said, ‘to consult a person of greater experience than ours. I will write and ask my lawyer to come and advise us tomorrow.’

Emily eagerly and gratefully accepted the suggestion. An hour was arranged for the meeting on the next day; and the courier’s wife left.

Weary and heartsick, Agnes lay down on the sofa, to rest and compose herself. The careful nurse brought a cup of tea. They were talking quietly, when they heard a loud knock at the house door. Hurried footsteps ascended the stairs. The door of the sitting-room was thrown open violently; the courier’s wife rushed in like a mad woman.

‘He’s dead! They’ve murdered him!’

Those wild words were all she could say. She dropped on her knees at the foot of the sofa and fell back in a swoon.

The nurse took the necessary measures to restore the fainting woman.

‘What’s this?’ she exclaimed. ‘Here’s a letter in her hand. See what it is, Miss.’

The open envelope was addressed to ‘Mrs. Ferrari.’ The post-mark was ‘Venice.’ On the note-paper, one line only was written. It contained these words:

‘To console you for the loss of your husband’

Agnes opened the enclosure next.

It was a Bank of England note for a thousand pounds.

Chapter VI

The next day, the friend and legal adviser of Agnes Lockwood, Mr. Troy, called on her by appointment in the evening. Mrs. Ferrari told the lawyer that was known about Ferrari’s disappearance. Mr. Troy read (first) the three letters addressed by Ferrari to his wife; (secondly) the letter written by Ferrari’s courier-friend, describing his visit to the palace and his interview with Lady Montbarry; and (thirdly) the one line of anonymous writing which accompanied the extraordinary gift of a thousand pounds to Ferrari’s wife.

‘She looks very ill, poor thing!’

In these words the lawyer opened the business of the evening.

‘She has suffered a terrible shock,’ Agnes answered.

Mr. Troy turned to Mrs. Ferrari, and looked at her again. He drummed absently with his fingers on the table. At last he spoke to her.

‘My good lady, you don’t really believe that your husband is dead?’

Mrs. Ferrari put her handkerchief to her eyes. The word ‘dead’ was ineffectual to express her feelings. ‘Murdered!’ she said sternly, behind her handkerchief.

‘Why? And by whom?’ Mr. Troy asked.

‘You have read my husband’s letters, sir,’ she began. ‘I believe he discovered-’ She stopped.

‘What did he discover?’

‘He discovered Lady Montbarry and the Baron!’ she answered. ‘The Baron is no more that vile woman’s brother than I am. My poor dear husband saw the wickedness of those two wretches. The lady’s maid left her place on account of it. They have killed my husband, because he knew much.’

Mr. Troy listened with an expression of satirical approval.

‘Mrs. Ferrari,’ he said, ‘you build up your sentences well, can be a good lawyer. Complete the case, my good lady – complete the case. Tell us next who sent you this letter with the bank-note. The “two wretches” who murdered Mr. Ferrari will hardly send you a thousand pounds. Who is it – eh? I see the post-mark on the letter is “Venice.” Have you any friend in that interesting city, with a large heart, who wishes to console you anonymously?’

It was not easy to reply to this.

‘I don’t understand you, sir,’ Mrs. Ferrari answered. ‘I don’t think this is a joke.’

Agnes drew her chair a little nearer to her friend Mr. Troy.

‘What is the most probable explanation, in your opinion?’ she asked.

‘I shall offend Mrs. Ferrari if I tell you,’ Mr. Troy answered.

‘No, sir, you won’t!’ cried Mrs. Ferrari.

The lawyer leaned back in his chair.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Observe, madam, I don’t dispute your view of the position of affairs at the palace in Venice. You have your husband’s letters to justify you; and you have also the significant fact that Lady Montbarry’s maid did really leave the house. We will say, then, that Lord Montbarry is victim of a foul wrong – and that Mr. Ferrari was the first to find it out. Now listen! Your husband is in this miserable household, under very awkward circumstances for him. What does he do? He wisely withdraws himself from association with a disgraceful discovery. He runs away secretly. The money modifies this view – unfavourably so far as Mr. Ferrari is concerned. I now say that bank-note there on the table is the price of his absence. The guilty persons sent it to his wife.’

Mrs. Ferrari’s watery grey eyes brightened suddenly.

‘It’s false!’ she cried. ‘It’s a shame to speak of my husband in that way!’

‘I told you I could offend you!’ said Mr. Troy.

Agnes took the offended wife’s hand. She appealed to the lawyer to reconsider his theory. While she was speaking, the servant interrupted her. He brought a visiting-card. It was the card of Henry Westwick; and there was an ominous request.

‘I bring bad news. Let me see you for a minute downstairs.’ Agnes immediately left the room.

Alone with Mrs. Ferrari, Mr. Troy told the courier’s wife,

‘My good soul,’ he began, ‘I respect you for speaking so warmly in your husband’s defence. I don’t want to offend you, I am a total stranger to you and to Mr. Ferrari. A thousand pounds is a large sum of money; and a poor man may be tempted by it and keep out of the way for a while. My only interest is to get at the truth. If you give me time, I’ll try to find your husband.’

‘I am much obliged to you, sir,’ was all Ferrari’s wife said.

Mr. Troy put his hands in his pockets, and looked out of window. After an interval of silence, the drawing-room door was opened.

Mr. Troy expected to see Agnes. To his surprise there appeared, in her place, a perfect stranger to him – a gentleman, with an expression of pain and embarrassment on his handsome face. He looked at Mr. Troy, and bowed gravely.

‘Some news has greatly distressed Miss Agnes Lockwood,’ he said. ‘She has retired to her room. I can speak to you in her place.’

Then he noticed Mrs. Ferrari, and held out his hand to her kindly.

‘It is some years since we last met, Emily,’ he said. ‘I am afraid you have almost forgotten “Master Henry”. My name is Henry Westwick. I am the younger brother of the late Lord Montbarry.’

‘The late Lord Montbarry!’ Mr. Troy exclaimed.

‘My brother died in Venice yesterday evening. There is the telegram,’ he handed the paper to Mr. Troy.

The message was in these words:

‘Lady Montbarry, Venice. To Stephen Robert Westwick, Newbury’s Hotel, London.

It is useless to take the journey. Lord Montbarry died of bronchitis, at 8.40 this evening. All needful details by post.’

‘Was this expected, sir?’ the lawyer asked.

‘I cannot say that we are surprised,’ Henry answered. ‘My brother Stephen (who is now the head of the family) received a telegram three days ago, informing him that alarming symptoms had declared themselves. The second physician was invited. He telegraphed that Lord Montbarry was in a state of insensibility, and that, in his brief intervals of consciousness, he recognised nobody.

My brother waited in London for later information. The third telegram is now in your hands.’

‘Mrs. Ferrari,’ said Mr. Troy, ‘have you heard what Mr. Westwick has just told me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have you any questions to ask?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You look alarmed,’ the lawyer persisted. ‘Is it still about your husband?’

‘I shall never see my husband again, sir. I am sure of it now.’

‘Sure of it, after what you have just heard?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Can you tell me why?’

‘No, sir. It’s a feeling I have. I can’t tell why.’

‘Oh, a feeling?’ Mr. Troy repeated, in a tone of compassionate contempt.

He rose.

‘Accept the expression of my sympathy[18], sir,’ he said to Mr. Westwick politely. ‘I wish you good evening.’

Henry turned to Mrs. Ferrari as the lawyer closed the door.

‘I have heard of your trouble, Emily, from Miss Lockwood. Is there anything I can do to help you?’

‘Nothing, sir, thank you. Perhaps, I will go home. I am very sorry for Miss Agnes.’

She left.

Henry Westwick looked round him in the solitude of the little drawing-room. It was something to be even near Agnes – to see her things. There, in the corner, was her chair, with her embroidery on the work-table. On the little easel near the window was her last drawing, not quite finished yet. The book she was reading lay on the sofa, with her tiny pencil. One after another, he looked at the objects that reminded him of the woman whom he loved.

‘She will never forget Montbarry,’ he thought to himself. ‘Not one of us feels his death as she feels it. Miserable, miserable wretch-how she loved him!’

In the street, an acquaintance, a wearisome inquisitive man stopped Henry.

‘Sad news, Westwick, this about your brother. Rather an unexpected death, wasn’t it? We never heard at the club that Montbarry’s lungs were weak. What will the insurance offices do?’

‘Stop it,’ said Henry irritably.

‘Ah!’ said his friend, ‘you think the widow will get the money? So do I! so do I!’

Chapter VII

Some days later, the insurance offices (two in number) received the formal announcement of Lord Montbarry’s death, from her ladyship’s London solicitors. The sum insured in each office was five thousand pounds. The Directors thought it desirable to consider their position. So the two offices decided to send a commission of inquiry to Venice, ‘to obtain further information.’

Mr. Troy received the earliest news. He wrote at once to Agnes:

‘You are intimately acquainted[19], I know, with Lady Barville, the late Lord Montbarry’s eldest sister. The solicitors employed by her husband are also the solicitors to one of the two insurance offices. There may possibly be something in the report of the commission of inquiry on Ferrari’s disappearance. Ordinary persons will not be permitted, of course, to see such a document. But a sister of the late lord is a relative. The lawyers will at least answer any questions she may ask. Let me hear what you think of this suggestion.’

Agnes declined Mr. Troy’s proposal.

‘My interference,’ she wrote, ‘has already produced deplorable results. I cannot and dare not stir any further in the case of Ferrari. I will not even look at the report to which you allude if it is in my hands – I have heard more than enough already of that hideous life in the palace in Venice. If Mrs. Ferrari chooses to address herself to Lady Barville (with your assistance), that is of course quite another thing. But, even in this case, my name must not be mentioned. Forgive me, dear Mr. Troy! I am very unhappy, and very unreasonable – but I am only a woman, and you must not expect too much from me.’

The lawyer wanted to discover the present address of Lady Montbarry’s English maid. This excellent suggestion had one drawback: money. And there was no money to spend. Mrs. Ferrari did not want to use the thousand-pound note. It was in a bank. ‘My husband’s blood-money!’ So the attempt to solve the mystery of Ferrari’s disappearance was suspended for a while.

It was the last month of the year 1860. The commission of inquiry was already at work. On the 10th of December, the term for which the late Lord Montbarry had hired the Venetian palace, expired. Lady Montbarry’s lawyers advised her to leave for London. Baron Rivar will accompany her to England, but will not remain in that country. The Baron, ‘well known as an enthusiastic student of chemistry,’ heard of certain recent discoveries in the United States, and was anxious to investigate them personally.

Mr. Troy duly communicated these items of news to Mrs. Ferrari, whose anxiety about her husband made her a frequent visitor at the lawyer’s office. She attempted to relate the news to her good friend and protectress. Agnes steadily refused to listen, and positively forbade any further conversation relating to Lord Montbarry’s wife.

‘You have Mr. Troy to advise you,’ she said; ‘and you are welcome to what little money I can spare, if money is wanted. All I ask in return is that you will not distress me. Let me hear nothing more, until I can rejoice with you that your husband is found.’

Chapter VIII

On the 14th the Directors and their legal advisers met for the reading of the report, with closed doors.

‘Private and confidential.

We have the honour to inform our Directors that we arrived in Venice on December 6, 1860. On the same day we proceeded to the palace inhabited by Lord Montbarry at the time of his last illness and death.

We were received with all possible courtesy by Lady Montbarry’s brother, Baron Rivar. “My sister was her husband’s only attendant throughout his illness,” the Baron informed us. “She is overwhelmed by grief and fatigue. What are your wishes, gentlemen? and what can I do for you in her ladyship’s place?”

In accordance with our instructions, we answered that the death and burial of Lord Montbarry abroad made it desirable to obtain more complete information relating to his illness. We explained the law, and we expressed our wish to conduct the inquiry with the most respectful consideration for her ladyship’s feelings, and for any other members of the family.

To this the Baron replied, “I am the only member of the family living here, and I and the palace are entirely at your disposal.” We found this gentleman perfectly straightforward, he was amiably willing to assist us.

With the one exception of her ladyship’s room, we went over the whole of the palace the same day. It is an immense place only partially furnished. The first floor and part of the second floor were the portions of it that had been inhabited by Lord Montbarry and the members of the household. We saw the bedchamber, in which his lordship died, and the small room, which he used as a study. Next to this was a large apartment or hall, the doors of which he kept locked. On the other side of the large hall were the bedchamber occupied by her ladyship, and the dressing-room in which the maid slept previous to her departure for England. Beyond these were the dining and reception rooms, opening into an antechamber, which gave access to the grand staircase of the palace.

The only inhabited rooms on the second floor were the sitting-room and bedroom occupied by Baron Rivar, and another room at some distance from it, which was the bedroom of the courier Ferrari.

The rooms on the third floor and on the basement were completely unfurnished. We inquired if there was anything to see below the basement. We were informed that there were vaults beneath.

We went down. The vaults were used as dungeons in the old times. Two long shafts of winding construction communicated with the back yard of the palace. The openings were protected by iron gratings. The stone stairs could be closed by a heavy trap-door in the back hall, which was open. The Baron himself led the way down the stairs.

We remarked that it might be awkward if that trap-door fell down and closed the opening behind us. The Baron smiled at the idea. “Don’t be alarmed, gentlemen,” he said; “the door is safe. My favourite study is the study of experimental chemistry – and my workshop is down here.”

These last words explained a curious smell in the vaults, which we noticed. The smell was of a twofold sort – faintly aromatic, in its first effect, but with some after-odour very sickening. The Baron’s furnaces and retorts, and other things, were all there, together with some packages of chemicals. “Not a pleasant place for study,” Baron Rivar observed, “but my sister is timid. She has a horror of chemical smells and explosions.” He held out his hands, on which we noticed that he wore gloves in the house. “Accidents happen sometimes,” he said, “I burnt my hands severely, and they are only recovering now.”

Later we were even admitted to her ladyship’s own room, when she went out. Our instructions recommended us to examine his lordship’s residence, because the extreme privacy of his life in Venice, and the remarkable departure of the only two servants in the house, might have some suspicious connection with the nature of his death. We found nothing to justify suspicion.

As to his lordship’s retired way of life, we conversed on the subject with the consul and the banker. He called once at the bank to obtain money on his letter of credit. He did not accept an invitation to visit the banker at his private residence. His lordship wrote to the consul, as well. We saw the letter, and we offer the copy of it.

“Many years in India have injured my constitution. I don’t go into society; the occupation of my life now is the study of Oriental literature. The air of Italy is better for me than the air of England. Pray accept the apologies of a student and an invalid. The active part of my life is at an end.”

The self-seclusion of his lordship is explained in these brief lines. Nothing to excite a suspicion of anything wrong has come to our knowledge.

As to the departure of the lady’s maid, we have seen the woman’s receipt for her wages. She left Lady Montbarry’s service because she disliked the Continent, and wished to get back to her own country.

The disappearance of the courier Ferrari is, in itself, unquestionably a suspicious circumstance. Neither her ladyship nor the Baron can explain it. We have examined the portmanteau which Ferrari left behind him. It contains nothing but clothes and linen – no money, and not even a scrap of paper in the pockets of the clothes. The portmanteau remains in charge of the police.

We have also spoken privately to the old woman who attends to the rooms occupied by her ladyship and the Baron. Unfortunately, her limited intelligence makes her of no value as a witness. She was willing to answer us; but we could elicit nothing useful.

On the second day of our inquiries, we had the honour of an interview with Lady Montbarry. Her ladyship looked miserable and ill. Baron Rivar, who introduced us, explained the nature of our errand in Venice. After that he discreetly left the room.

The questions which we addressed to Lady Montbarry related mainly, of course, to his lordship’s illness. The answers informed us of the facts that follow:

Lord Montbarry had been out of order for some time past – nervous and irritable. He first complained of illness on November 13. He passed a wakeful and feverish night, and remained in bed the next day. Her ladyship proposed medical advice. He refused to call the doctor. Some hot lemonade was made at his request. The courier Ferrari (then the only servant in the house) went out to buy the lemons. Her ladyship made the drink with her own hands. Lord Montbarry had some hours of sleep afterwards. Later in the day, Lady Montbarry rang for Ferrari. The bell was not answered. Baron Rivar searched for the man, in the palace and out of it, in vain. This happened on November 14.

On the night of the 14th, the feverish symptoms returned. They were perhaps attributable to the annoyance and alarm caused by Ferrari’s mysterious disappearance.

On the 15th (the day on which the old woman first came to do the housework), his lordship complained of sore throat, and of a feeling of oppression on the chest. On this day, and again on the 16th, her ladyship and the Baron entreated him to see a doctor. He still refused. “I don’t want strange faces about me,” that was his answer.

On the 17th he was so much worse that it was decided to send for medical help whether he liked it or not. Baron Rivar, after inquiry at the consul’s, secured the services of Doctor Bruno, an eminent physician in Venice. The doctor’s own report is attached.

“My medical diary informs me that I first saw the English Lord Montbarry, on November 17. He was suffering from a sharp attack of bronchitis. Some precious time was lost. So he was in a delicate state of health. His nervous system was out of order – he was at once timid and contradictory. When I spoke to him in English, he answered in Italian; and when I tried him in Italian, he went back to English. Then he could only speak a few words at a time, and those in a whisper.

I at once applied the necessary remedies. Copies of my prescriptions (with translation into English) accompany the present statement.

For the next three days I was in constant attendance on my patient. Lady Montbarry was indeed a very devoted wife. She did not allow anybody to attend on her husband but herself. Night and day this estimable woman was at his bedside. In her brief intervals of repose, her brother watched the sick man in her place. This brother dabbled in chemistry; and he wanted to show me some of his experiments.

Up to the 20th, then, things went well enough. I was quite unprepared for the disastrous change that showed itself, when I paid Lord Montbarry my morning visit on the 21st. He relapsed, and seriously relapsed. I examined him to discover the cause. I found symptoms of pneumonia. He breathed with difficulty. Lady Montbarry suggested a consultation with another physician. Her ladyship instructed me to get the best medical opinion in Italy. The first and foremost of Italian physicians is Torello of Padua. He arrived on the evening of the 21st, and confirmed my opinion about pneumonia, and that our patient’s life was in danger. He approved of my treatment. He made some valuable suggestions, and he deferred his return to Padua until the following morning.

The disease was steadily advancing. In the morning Doctor Torello left. ‘I can be of no further use,’ he said to me. ‘Nothing can help this – and he must know it.’

Later in the day I warned my lord that his time had come. Lord Montbarry received the news with composure, but with a certain doubt. He whispered faintly, ‘Are you sure?’ It was no time to deceive him; I said, ‘Positively sure.’ He waited a little, and then he whispered again, ‘Feel under my pillow.’ I found under his pillow a letter, sealed and stamped, ready for the post. His next words were audible: ‘Post it yourself.’ I answered, of course, and I did post the letter with my own hand. I looked at the address. It was directed to a lady in London. The street I cannot remember. The name I can perfectly recall: it was an Italian name: ‘Mrs. Ferrari.’

That night my lord nearly died of asphyxia. He lingered in a state of insensibility until the 25th, and died on the evening of that day.

As to the cause of his death, it seems simply absurd to ask the question. Bronchitis, terminating in pneumonia. Doctor Torello’s own note is added here to a duplicate of my certificate.”

Doctor Bruno’s evidence ends here.

Lady Montbarry can give us no information on the subject of the letter which the doctor posted at Lord Montbarry’s request. When his lordship wrote it? what it contained? why he kept it a secret from Lady Montbarry (and from the Baron also)? why did he write to the wife of his courier? Application to Mrs. Ferrari may perhaps clear up the mystery.

Anyway, it is impossible to dispute the statement on the certificate that his lordship died a natural death. Therefore, we report that there are no valid grounds for refusing the payment of the sum for which the late Lord Montbarry’s life was assured.

We shall send these lines to you by the post of tomorrow, December 10.’

Chapter IX

‘Now, my dear, what do you have to say to me? I don’t want to hurry you; but these are business hours, and I have other people’s affairs.’

Addressing Ferrari’s wife, Mr. Troy looked at the watch on his desk, and then waited to hear what his client had to say to him.

‘It’s something more, sir, about the letter with the thousand-pound note,’ Mrs. Ferrari began. ‘I have found out who sent it to me.’

Mr. Troy started. ‘This is news indeed!’ he said. ‘Who sent you the letter?’

‘Lord Montbarry sent it, sir.’

‘Nonsense! There is some mistake – it can’t be!’ he said.

‘There is no mistake,’ Mrs. Ferrari rejoined. ‘Two gentlemen from the insurance offices told me. They heard of the letter and of the bank-note inside. And they know who sent the letter. The doctor in Venice posted it at his lordship’s request. Go to the gentlemen yourself, sir, if you don’t believe me. They asked me why Lord Montbarry had written to me and sent me the money. I said it was like his lordship’s kindness.’

‘Like his lordship’s kindness?’ Mr. Troy repeated, in amazement. ‘A very pretty explanation! What did your visitors from the insurance offices think of it?’

‘They asked if I had any proof of my husband’s death.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I said, “I give you better than proof, gentlemen; I give you my positive opinion.’

‘That satisfied them, of course?’

‘They didn’t say anything, sir. They looked at each other – and wished me good-morning.’

‘Well, Mrs. Ferrari, I think I shall wish you good-morning too. In the absence of proof, I can do no more.’

‘I can provide you with proof, sir – if that is all you want,’ said Mrs. Ferrari. ‘You probably know that Lady Montbarry has arrived in London, at Newbury’s Hotel. I propose to go and see her.’

‘May I ask for what purpose?’

Mrs. Ferrari answered in a mysterious whisper.

‘For the purpose of catching her in a trap! The first words I say to her will be these: “I come, my lady, to acknowledge the receipt of the money sent to Ferrari’s widow.” And I am going there now, sir. You will hear how it ends. I wish you good-morning.’

With those brave words the courier’s wife gathered her mantle, and walked out of the room. Mr. Troy smiled – not satirically, but compassionately:

‘I wonder how it will end?’

Chapter X

In the meantime, Mrs. Ferrari went straight from Mr. Troy’s office to Newbury’s Hotel. Lady Montbarry was at home, and alone. In spite of her resolution, Mrs. Ferrari was nervous, when the maid led her into the ante-room, and knocked at the door. A low, grave voice from the inner room said,

‘Come in.’

The maid, opening the door, announced,

‘A person to see you, my lady, on business,’ and immediately retired.

In the one instant, timid little Mrs. Ferrari stood in the presence of Lord Montbarry’s widow.

It was still early in the afternoon, but the light in the room was dim. Lady Montbarry sat with her back to the windows. She looked at the stranger with a moment’s languid curiosity.

‘I don’t know you,’ she said. ‘What do you want with me?’

Mrs. Ferrari tried to answer. Her courage went away. The bold words died on her lips. There was a moment of silence. Lady Montbarry looked again at the speechless stranger.

‘Are you deaf?’ she asked.

There was another pause.

‘Do you want money?’

Money! The courier’s wife recovered her courage.

‘Look at me, my lady, if you please,’ she said.

Lady Montbarry looked at her for the third time. The fatal words passed Mrs. Ferrari’s lips.

‘I come, my lady, to acknowledge the receipt of the money sent to Ferrari’s widow.’

Lady Montbarry’s glittering black eyes rested on the woman. Not the faintest expression of confusion or alarm, not even a momentary flutter of interest. The test was failed.

There was another silence. The smile that came slowly and went away suddenly – the smile at once so sad and so cruel – showed itself on Lady Montbarry’s thin lips. She pointed to a seat at the farther end of the room.

‘Be so good as to take that chair,’ she said.

Mrs. Ferrari mechanically obeyed. Lady Montbarry watched her with undisguised scrutiny.

‘No,’ she said to herself, ‘the woman walks steadily; she is not intoxicated – the only other possibility is that she may be mad.’

She spoke loud enough. Mrs. Ferrari instantly answered her:

‘I am no more drunk or mad than you are!’

‘No?’ said Lady Montbarry. ‘Then you are only insolent? Oh, the ignorant English mind! This is very noticeable to us foreigners among you people in the streets. Of course I can’t be insolent to you, in return. I hardly know what to say to you. I wonder who you are? You mentioned the name of a courier who left us very strangely. Are you his wife? And do you know where he is?’

Mrs. Ferrari advanced to the sofa; she feared nothing.

‘I am his widow – and you know it, you wicked woman! Ah! it was an evil hour when Miss Lockwood recommended my husband to be his lordship’s courier!’

Before she could add another word, Lady Montbarry sprang from the sofa and seized her by both shoulders – and shook her with the strength and frenzy of a madwoman.

‘You lie! you lie! you lie!’ She threw up her hands wildly with a gesture of despair. ‘Oh, Jesu Maria! is it possible?’ she cried. ‘Can the courier have come to me through that woman?’

She stopped Mrs. Ferrari when she was escaping from the room.

‘Stay here, you fool – stay here, and answer me! Sit down – and fear nothing. Wretch! It is I who am frightened. Confess that you lied, when you used Miss Lockwood’s name just now! No! I don’t believe you on your oath; I will believe nobody but Miss Lockwood herself. Where does she live? Tell me that, you noxious little insect – and you may go.’

Mrs. Ferrari was terrified. She hesitated. Lady Montbarry lifted her hands threateningly, with the long, lean fingers, and Mrs. Ferrari gave the address. Lady Montbarry pointed contemptuously to the door – then changed her mind.

‘No! not yet! you will tell Miss Lockwood what has happened, and she may refuse to see me. I will go there at once, and you will go with me. Sit down again. I am going to ring for my maid.’

She rang the bell. The maid appeared.

‘My cloak and bonnet – instantly! A cab at the door – before I can count ten![20]’

The maid vanished. Lady Montbarry told Mrs. Ferrari.

‘I look half dead already, don’t I?’ she said with a grim. ‘Give me your arm.’

She took Mrs. Ferrari’s arm, and left the room. ‘You have nothing to fear, so long as you obey,’ she whispered, on the way downstairs. ‘You leave me at Miss Lockwood’s door, and never see me again.’

In the hall they met the landlady of the hotel. Lady Montbarry graciously presented her companion,

‘My good friend Mrs. Ferrari; I am so glad to see her.’

The landlady accompanied them to the door. The cab was waiting. They drove away. Lady Montbarry preserved a sinister silence, until they reached the house where Miss Lockwood

lodged. She opened the door of the cab, and closed it again.

‘Take that lady a mile farther on her way home!’ she said, as she paid the man his fare.

The next moment she knocked at the house-door.

‘Is Miss Lockwood at home?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She stepped over the threshold – the door closed on her.

‘Which way, ma’am?’ asked the driver of the cab.

Mrs. Ferrari put her hand to her head, and tried to collect her thoughts. Will she leave her friend and benefactress helpless at Lady Montbarry’s mercy? Which course to follow? Suddenly a gentleman stopped at Miss Lockwood’s door. He looked towards the cab-window, and saw her.

‘Are you going to call on Miss Agnes too?’ he asked.

It was Henry Westwick. Mrs. Ferrari recognised him.

‘Go in, sir!’ she cried. ‘Go in, directly. That dreadful woman is with Miss Agnes. Go and protect her!’

‘What woman?’ Henry asked.

With amazement and indignation in his face, he looked at Mrs. Ferrari as she pronounced the hated name of ‘Lady Montbarry.’

‘I’ll see to it[21],’ was all he said.

Chapter XI

‘Lady Montbarry, Miss.’

Agnes was writing a letter, when the servant announced the visitor’s name. Her first impulse was to refuse to see the woman. But Lady Montbarry entered the room.

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Примечания

1

consulting-hours – приёмные часы

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2

she said she wouldn’t keep you five minutes – она сказала, что не отнимет у вас и пяти минут

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3

rounds among the patients – обход пациентов

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4

on tip-toe – на цыпочках

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5

smelling bottle – бутылочка с нюхательной солью

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6

reports of me – слухи про меня

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7

addressed it to the ‘Poor-box’ – написал на нём «В пользу бедных»

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8

Dalmatian lady – уроженка Далмации (области на северо-западе Балканского полуострова)

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9

had then deluded him into making her a proposal of marriage – обманом вынудила потом предложение руки и сердца

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10

the ‘Peerage’ – «Книга пэров»

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11

Don’t mind me. – Не обращайте на меня внимания.

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12

every acre of which is entailed – каждый акр (той земли) – неотчуждаемая собственность

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13

I am out of spirits. – У меня скверное настроение.

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14

he treated you like the scoundrel – он выказал себя перед тобой подлецом

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15

the Channel – Ла-Манш

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16

water-colour drawing – акварель

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17

I will call for you – я заеду за тобой

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18

accept the expression of my sympathy – примите мои соболезнования

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19

intimately acquainted – близко знакомы

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20

before I can count ten – прежде чем я досчитаю до десяти

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21

I’ll see to it – я об этом позабочусь

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